Bursars, Ladders and Lots of Notes
by Vella
Summary: A strange dialogue between Ponder and Ridcully over the Bursar. Well, not literally. Just a bit of light entertainment. Oneshot. Reviews welcome.


AN: Please, do not ask me why. I have absolutely no idea. This popped into my head and decided to nibble on my brain. Given that I have an exam tomorrow (which I really should be revising for, instead of writing weird and disturbing fanfiction), I would very much like to keep my brain. Intact, if possible. So, yeah. The plot bunny was torturing me! Blame the plot bunny!

Seriously. This is being written at about two in the morning, which may explain all the notes. Please try to forgive my warped mind. But reviews are sincerely welcome (although flames will be used to boil milk).

Disclaimer: I do not, have not, and probably never will, own(ed) any of the characters, places, situations, or objects you may recognise. In this case: I do not own the Discworld! (The Discworld is our creator, not the other way round). Anyway, on with the story.

Bursars, Ladders and Lots of Note

"Um…Arch-Chancellor?"

Ridcully jerked awake, grunting. "Hm? What? Who is it?"

"Um, Ponder Stibbons, Arch-Chancellor." The man looked at him nervously.

"What? Oh." Ridcully quickly stood up and adjusted his hat. "Well, what is it?"

Ponder hesitated. "It's…well…it's…um…"

"Out with it man! What do you want?"

_A large buffet dinner and lots of scantily dressed women would be nice,_ he thought.† Instead he quickly stuttered, ††† "It's the B-B-Bursar again, sir. He says the p-p-platypus keeps t-t-talking to him, sir. In K-K-Klatchian."

Ridcully sighed. "Haven't you given him his dried frog pills yet? I'm sure I told someone to."

"He won't come down from the ceiling, sir. He says the fish are bothering him."

"Well then, use the gardener's ladder, man! What else is it for? Apart from gardening, obviously," he added, as Ponder opened his mouth to reply. "They always put it back when they've finished."

"That's just it, Arch-Chancellor. They _are_ using it. And the Professor of Revolvings says he refuses to go up again anyway, sir."

Ridcully sighed again. It was such a hard life, being Arch-Chancellor. They told you it was all buffets and queafing, ‡‡‡ and then, when they'd reeled you in, suddenly someone drops a double summer of work on you and there are Bursars flying around the rafters. ±

"Alright. I'll see what I can do. But I'll need the ladder from the gardeners again. For the Professor."

"Yes Arch-Chancellor."

"Good man." The Arch-Chancellor straightened his hat once more, before striding off confidently.

Ponder quickly hurried after him. "Um, the Bursar is in the Great Hall, sir." He coughed. "The, um, other way, sir."

Ridcully, looking momentarily flustered, quickly recovered himself. "Yes, yes, of course." He straightened his hat and coughed awkwardly. "The ladder, man, the ladder!" he muttered briskly. "The gardeners can't have it to themselves all the time," he said, and strode off in the other direction.

Ponder shook his head wearily. It wouldn't be too hard to retrieve the ladder from the university students, particularly at a time when everyone was suffering from hangovers, ±± and were therefore not present to object. ±±± That didn't mean he _liked_ having to climb the Tower of Art.

Notes:

†Or at least he would have done, had he been capable of thinking whilst being stared at impatiently by the Arch-Chancellor. As it was, the only thought running around in his brain at this moment was about a miniature noodle day parlour with lime walls and purple ceilings.††

††This is one of those thoughts that occur a few days after a freak accident with a mammoth, involving a red-hot poker and a rubber chicken.

†††Why people always do this when under pressure is a mystery, but given that the explanation involves doing strange things with a hippopotamus in a tutu, ‡ it is probably best left alone. ‡‡

‡Or at least, we think that's what the Lecturer in Creative Uncertainty said. After the rather unfortunate incident with the mouse, he doesn't like to talk much, poor chap.

‡‡Whether it is the hippopotamus in the tutu, we are not quite sure. Perhaps the best way to find out would be to ask the hippopotamus yourself. But bring a spare, just in case.

‡‡‡Which is like quaffing, except done at a big long table piled so high with food that you couldn't see the person sitting next to you, let alone the one at the other end.

±Not that he minded the Bursar. It's just that sometimes it would be nice to know someone who _couldn't_ have a reasonable conversation with Foul Ole Ron. And he wasn't talking about the dog, either.

±±It is well known that everyone has a hangover the morning after, whether or not they actually consumed anything in order to achieve this effect. Fate seems to think it's fairer this way.

±±±It is another well-known fact that anyone with a hangover actually inhabits another universe – albeit only temporarily, and one very similar to their own – thereby enabling those clever enough not to have gone to sleep – meaning it is still yesterday, and therefore a place safe from hangovers – to do whatever the hell they like.


End file.
